by Jay Swanson
The Fisherman nodded hesitantly. He had seen her change as well. “We'd like to go with you then.”
“I would like that very much. I gather that if the stories are true, you'll know better what we're looking at than I will.”
“Then may I suggest that you strike camp and send your people on ahead of you? For their own safety's sake if nothing else.”
“Of course.” She rose, and they did their best to follow with grace. “I have some plans to draw up and orders to give. I suggest you get some sleep. We'll leave at daybreak.” She gestured towards the south. “There is a tent just outside my own that has been prepared for you.”
“Thank you, Highness,” the Fisherman said with a bow. Ardin tried to imitate the older man as best he could.
They walked out into the crisp clear night, the stars twinkling brilliantly overhead. Ardin wished he had time to lie down in the grass and watch them for a while. He stayed silent as the royal guards stared into the camp beyond. It seemed like the whole tent was surrounded, he hadn't noticed this many guards when they had entered.
The one standing immediately outside the entrance bowed slightly to them, then gestured to the right with his long spear. They followed around, each guard bowing his head as they passed, until they rounded the corner and found a smaller version of Rain's tent waiting for them. Inside were two low cots and a lantern hanging overhead. Bread, cheese and fruit were set out on a table in the corner, but otherwise it stood fairly empty.
The Fisherman motioned with a finger to stay silent as he walked around the edges of the tent. The camp itself was quieting down, though Ardin could still hear songs break out in the distance, growing to a din before dying down in laughter. He wondered if they were still singing songs about the Cleaver, returned to free them all. The thought made him smile. The realization of the associated expectations, however, sent a shiver down his spine.
He sat on his cot and dropped his boots on the floor. He hadn't bothered putting them on when they left. The area was grassy enough and his feet needed some freedom. He actually felt like he could just fall asleep right then and there, until the Fisherman lifted him from behind by the shoulders.
“No sleep for the weary. At least not yet, lad.”
“Gah.” Ardin adjusted himself so he wouldn't fall back onto the cot. “I thought you said to be silent. I was about to take it one step further for you.”
“Aye, you're bein' a good lad. But we'd best keep watch tonight. I didn'a like the way she was eyin' ya tonight. Not when you told her about yer past, nor how quick the subject changed after.”
“What was with that?” It was good to have the Fisherman talking and acting more himself in the privacy of the tent.
“Lad.” The Fisherman knelt as Ardin sat back on his cot. “I don't remember much about the prophecies 'n such of these folk. It's said they were once closer to the Creator than any of our own. But it's said a man of three breeds will come to save them all.”
“Three breeds?” The thought made Ardin laugh. “Do I have to sprout wings to fulfill that one? I'd love to fly.”
“I don't know how it affects you, lad. But I can tell she's tryin' hard to fit ye into those prophecies. She wants it to be you. Prolly needs it to be you. I fear she's showin' her desperation for what it is, lad. So long as she ain't thinkin' to betray us somehow...”
“Maybe she just likes me,” Ardin grinned. “Did you ever think about that?”
“Queens don't go about teeterin' their pretty heads about over wee lads such as yerself, n' don't go forgettin' it. We could be in a lotta trouble; I ain't about to start relaxin' now 'n you're gonna keep yer busy hands to yerself. So get some sleep and enjoy it 'till I wake you up.”
“No arguments there.” Ardin kicked his feet up and lay back on the cot. The lavish pillows absorbed him into a blissful warmth, and sleep claimed him before he could think of anything else to say.
Ardin woke to the sounds of horses and carts stamping past. Men were shouting and metal clanked all around them. He sat up with a start, certain a battle had descended on them in the night. When his eyes adjusted, he could see the Fisherman sitting at the entrance to their tent, calm as could be.
“What's going on?”
“They're strikin' camp, like I suggested.”
“That's good, isn't it?” Ardin rubbed his eyes and found it a lot harder to get out of bed now that the world was at rights.
“They're too slow.” Resignation laced his tone. “They won't be able to move west quickly enough.”
“Maybe they'll be alright. They haven't been attacked yet.”
“Aye, the key to that bein' 'yet.'” The Fisherman was not impressed. “I'm not surprised they're movin' so slow, but they should've been evacuatin' people as they went. Not buildin' this massive farce.”
Ardin finally got his feet on the ground and started lacing up his boots. “Well you might as well take a rest, I'm pretty much awake now.”
“No time.” The Fisherman never broke his stare out the door. “Dawn's almost 'ere.”
It was then that Ardin realized for the first time that the old man was back in his armor. “You let me sleep the whole night?”
“I couldn't sleep anyways, lad. Feel like we've stepped over the stern on this one.” It looked like he wasn't even breathing. “Somethin' ain't right. Just keep yer eyes open.”
Ardin got his boots on and wandered over to the food in the corner. There were all kinds of fruits, some cured meat and peppered cheese, along with a small mound of bread. He'd barely gotten any in him before Shill showed up at the tent.
“Glad to see you're up and ready.” He grinned. “I'd expect nothing less. Here, Ardin.” He tossed a pile of boiled leather on the nearest cot. “That's for you, some good stuff too. It'll keep the small stuff out, but don't expect it to protect you from getting gutted if any of those Dunmar bastards show up. As luck would have it, we've only seen Woads twice along this border and no Parnithons, so we should have an easy go until we reach the camp.”
“Woads?” Ardin tore off another piece of bread.
“They're like big black tree cats with the legs of frogs. Ugly, stinky bastards. They're quick, vicious, and strong enough to rip a horse's throat out in one go. One of the Demon's earliest and nastiest amalgamations. I don't know what he bred to make them but we'll hope we don't cross any.”
“Where are we going?” The Fisherman picked up the armor and held it out to Ardin. It was obvious the boy had no idea which end was up.
“We're headed deeper than we've gone before. Small contingency, four days in. There's a camp putting out enough smoke that it must have a foundry in it somewhere. We're hoping to get an idea of what they're doing before we take word back to the capital.”
He laughed as Ardin tried to squeeze into the leather that was supposed to cover his arms and torso. His head got caught in the straps connecting the epaulettes more than once. “Don't forget the little greaves there either. Gotta keep those legs nice and pretty.”
“Greaves?”
“They cover your legs.” The Fisherman bent down to strap the stuff on.
“All the straps around the trousers don't do that enough?” Ardin felt a bit claustrophobic as the Fisherman yanked a strap over his thigh through its buckle.
He didn't respond. He just glanced up at Ardin like he was as ignorant as, in fact, he was.
“Her Highness is waiting for us,” Shill said as the Fisherman stood to face him. “You get any food in ya?”
“Aye, we're set.”
“Good,” Shill pointed over his shoulder. “Packed your bags for you last night. We should be all ready to go.”
Shill walked off towards a group of thirty or forty mounted men. Each was wearing the dark gray strips of cloth that were becoming a common sight. What caught Ardin's eye was that each of them was heavily armed. Swords hung off belts or in slings set at the front of their saddles. Each man had at least one spear sticking out of his high-backed cantle; some had as m
any as four. It made them look like they were sitting in very tall, pointy chairs.
Most of the tents in the area had already been packed, and the Renault tent was being struck. The Fisherman gave Ardin a knowing look as they followed. Ardin, for his part, didn't feel ill at ease. While he understood the Fisherman's misgivings, or at least he imagined he did, he didn't share them. These people seemed far too prim and proper to be much threat. How could anyone so formal be so bad?
“Didn't know you lads had mounts,” the Fisherman said.
Shill just smiled over his shoulder. “Can't go giving away all our secrets at first introduction, now can we?”
There were three riderless horses that Ardin assumed must be for them. Somehow he felt ill as they closed on the group. He brushed it off as nerves. It was a large group of strangers. Shill jumped into the first with little difficulty. Each horse was wrapped loosely in the dark gray strips of cloth, broken only by the high-backed leather saddles. The stirrups seemed a bit low to Ardin, but he hadn't ridden a horse in a long time. Saddle bags rode up high towards the haunches of each horse, stocked lightly to accommodate their need for haste.
The Fisherman struggled getting on his own horse. So big was he in his armor that the horse quickly took on the appearance of a pony. He was obviously more comfortable on a boat. Ardin, for his part, took a moment to get to know his horse while the others mounted up. He walked along her flank, hand out to drag his fingers in her mane. She was a deep mahogany, a bit shaggy, but she still held her sheen under the rags. She stamped a little to the side as he approached her head. He soothed her with a word.
He'd always been good with his uncle's horses. He didn't know why, but they'd always responded well to him. His brother, John, had always gotten kicks and bites where Ardin received nuzzles. John had always claimed to be the better horseman. Even so, he had asked Ardin once how he managed horses so well; Ardin couldn't give an answer. You might as well attempt to pin down why you're able to walk a straight line. He was just good with them.
This one had some fire in her; he could see it in her eyes. He'd learned that look the first time he'd been bucked, and made sure never to miss it again. But she was stable, calm for the moment.
“What's her name?” Ardin asked no one in particular.
“Gella,” Rain said as she sidled over to him. “She was one of mine, a beautiful courser if ever I've had one.”
“Strange name for a horse.”
“Ardin's a strange name for a boy.”
Ardin smiled as he patted Gella's long face and ran his fingers under her bridle. He could tell she liked that. “We're gonna get along just fine.”
And with that he strode around and swung up into the saddle. “When you said four days, I thought you meant walking.”
“It would take a lot longer than that if we were to walk,” said Shill. “Not to mention more dangerous. Don't really want to get caught on foot out th– well damn it all if I haven't seen everything now.”
The shock of the interruption led Ardin to realize that his ill feeling had crept into his stomach. He hadn't even noticed until now, Could it have been the food? He shook it off to focus on what was happening in front of him, following Shill's gaze to where three more horsemen joined their midst. One was tall, slender, and as bald as a melon. Next to him rode another man, almost as tall, but broad. His skin was a darker olive color than Ardin had ever seen before, his hair as black as the Dunmar's blood. On his back he carried what looked like a sickle that shared its pole with an ax. And between them rode the blond man from the day before.
“Branston,” Shill spat. “Things couldn't get more poignantly awkward, could they? I'll be right back. Your Highness?”
But Rain was already walking her horse towards the newcomers. “Sir Branston,” she said, the cold formality hitting her voice like ice water. Ardin hadn't heard anyone called 'sir' with their name before. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
“Your Highness!” He bowed low in the saddle, almost patronizing in the motion. “You made it fairly clear that my blades were wanted on the lines, and so I'm here to offer my finest.”
His gaze searched the crowd until he found Ardin and the Fisherman. They each received withering glances before his winsome smile flashed again.
“You mean to send Amalgus and the famed Cynder along with us? How gallant to sacrifice your favored champions.”
Shill laughed pointedly. “Guarding the baggage train might actually prove a bit more exciting if you don't have your dogs guarding you day and night, Branston.”
“Sir Branston,” he corrected icily. “Don't find yourself too familiar with your superiors, Shill. It's not becoming, even for a Master of the Royal Bodyguard. As for my blades, they include myself. I am, as a matter of fact, of a peer with my champions.”
That elicited some quiet jests and jeers until the big one shifted menacingly in his saddle. The laughter died quickly at that.
Ardin wondered why Rain didn't just send him away. She seemed on the verge of doing so, the desire was plain even to Ardin. But something restrained her; some form of politics he didn't understand, he guessed.
“Welcome then,” she said finally. “Let us hope that we won't need your steel after all.”
“I could drink to that!” Branston lifted an imaginary drink that no one seemed willing to share.
“I trust you brought your own food at least?” Shill wheeled his horse about to face Rain before Branston could respond.
“Is the camp ready to move?” She asked as she turned her own horse around.
“Within the hour, Highness.”
“Then give the order and let's move.”
The Fisherman and Ardin wheeled into formation at the head of the column. Ardin couldn't help but notice the three newcomers staring at him as they rode out of the camp. It made his skin crawl a little... perhaps for all their formality, these people could be dangerous.
They rode with the sun scorching the hills to their right. The northern wind blew doubly hard in their faces as their horses trotted through the low foliage. What weight had been on Ardin's shoulders lifted as the wind ran tingles across his skin. It felt good, almost like galloping except for the rough nature of the trot. He would never have claimed to have mastered riding, and his uncle would have shot him down if he had, but he loved it. For all its danger. For all its freedom.
It was all he could do to keep from digging his heels in and tearing off across the hills.
Gella would have liked that too. He could tell from the restless way she chose her route. She was overflowing with energy, energy he wanted to unleash.
They spent that entire first day riding. They stopped only once to eat and find an unlucky bush to relieve themselves on. But aside from that they spent their time in the saddle. Ardin still felt strangely sick when he rode with the group. His stomach churned as if his nerves were at war with themselves. It was a familiar feeling, but one he couldn't put his finger on. Whenever he rode out from the group, however, he felt palpable relief.
He finally got his opportunity to sleep under the stars as well. He stared up at clear skies until he realized he was being woken up. The kink in his back from the knotty ground only made him smile that much more. It was so wonderfully warm outside for winter, he wondered how that worked.
They rode much the same as they had the day before, pacing their horses to last the entire journey. At streams they would allow their mounts to drink, but otherwise they pressed onwards with a singular determination.
Ardin could barely keep the grin off his face. It seemed to irritate Branston and his lackeys, but he didn't care. It made the act all the more enjoyable.
“You really like riding,” Rain said as they worked their way along a shallow creek. They'd been working to stay off the hilltops most of the day.
“Yeah,” Ardin said as he stood in the stirrups. The wind rushed through his shaggy hair as he shook it freely in the sun. “I love all of this. I feel... happy. For the first t
ime in forever, I feel really happy.”
She smiled in turn, her blond hair whisking around her face as she kept pace with him. She never put it up, he noticed. It was always wild and free, much like he was discovering her to be.
Her brow lowered mischievously. “You wanna race?”She asked, sounding much more like a girl her age than the Guardian of the West.
“Do squirrels squeal when you throw them in a lake?”
The idiom caught her off guard. “I... do they?”
“Yep!” And with that he was off like a wet squirrel. Gella was a beast. He realized it in that moment, almost falling out of his saddle as she lunged forward to the touch of his heels. All of the energy she'd pent up was resting just below the surface. Whether she'd sensed what was going on or was just that close to bursting forward he never knew, but he loved every second of it. They broke into a gallop within moments, the smooth stream of the world passing them by as he laughed and laughed.
The creek bed was practically straight for a good while, the ground sure in the heat of the day. He grinned as the wind tore at his face, drawing tears of joy along his cheeks and into his ears. He dared a glance over his shoulder, discovering that Rain was only a few lengths behind. He smiled at her before ducking low and urging Gella on.
Harder, he knew he could will her to go even faster. I know you've got it in you. Now fly!
And as if in response, she did. They never left the ground, but to Ardin it suddenly felt like gravity had no hold on him. He wrapped himself around the old girl's neck half out of elation and half from the fear of floating off. He realized then that the warmth was stirring in him, pouring itself into his horse. He looked back up into the distance laughing.
He knew it was him in that moment. That it was him doing the running – he was the one flying. God, it felt good. All he wanted was to let go now and to fly for real. He could do it. He knew he could. But before he had the chance to try, he heard a scream that brought him back to reality all too quickly. The blur of the world slowed and twirled around him as he brought Gella to a stop and turned her without a thought.
